


The Bored Detective

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 18:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Greg is looking forward to a nice night in - and hopefully dinner - with Sherlock, but Mrs Hudson's greeting leaves him somewhat apprehensive. This is our solution to how Sherlock became the wedding-planner-in chief (and delivers more fluff than you can shake a stick at).This is part of a series but stands alone as a piece of Sherstrade fluff.





	The Bored Detective

**Author's Note:**

> We do not own Sherlock. Pity.
> 
> Written with Romany Walker. 
> 
> This is part of a series, but is also a stand alone piece of Sherstrade fluff. There isn't nearly enough of that around. 
> 
> Feedback is very welcome.

The door to 221b Baker Street had barely closed when Mrs Hudson flew out of her flat, harried and wringing her hands. “Oh, Greg, dear, _do_ something!” she implored, apparently on the verge of a breakdown. 

“What’s wr–” Greg started, but a loud ‘bang’ from the first floor made the question redundant. He glanced up at the ceiling, as though hoping to see through the wood and plaster, and sighed. “How long’s he been at it?”

“Well, he was playing his violin when I went to the toilet at two o’clock this morning, and I’m sure I heard a gunshot at lunch, but by the time I got up there he was doing something with his blowtorch. A client came at three, but she left in tears and I’ve not liked to bother him since,” Mrs Hudson fretted.

Resigned to his fate, Greg squeezed her frilly shoulder and, with more confidence than he felt, said, “Leave him to me.”

Greg ascended the stairs to the first floor with more than a little trepidation. Entering Sherlock’s lair was always a bit risky when he was in a mood, and if he was shooting the wall and sending clients away in tears it was a safe bet that he was in an absolutely _spectacular_ mood.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sherlock greeted as Greg entered, looking up from the book he was reading, gaze assessing. He was standing in front of the far window, the floor around him littered with books and magazines. “What do you want? If you haven’t brought me a case, piss off.” 

“Hello to you, too.” Greg picked his way across the book and magazine strewn floor until he was close enough for a lingering kiss. “Came to see you, didn’t I? Been a long day and I hoped you might make me dinner. That chicken thing you did the other week was gorgeous.”

“Why should I waste time cooking when there’s a semi-decent Chinese on the corner?” Sherlock asked dismissively and dropped his book to the floor, where it landed with a dull ‘thump’. “You’ve not eaten, other than four - no, five - Hobnobs, since breakfast and ordering in will be quicker.”

“Oh, go on. It was lovely, that, and I’ve been fancying it all day,” Greg ran a hand through messy curls and stole another kiss.

“I don’t have the ingredients for it.” Sherlock pressed closer and worked a hand under Greg’s jacket to rest on his lower back. “I’m bored: let’s order in and you can entertain me until it arrives.”

As tempting as that offer was, Greg was determined. Sherlock clearly needed something to occupy that magnificent brain of his, and the state of the flat and Mrs Hudson’s report made it obvious that he was well past the point where a quick shag - and in this mood it would doubtlessly be _very_ quick - would settle him. He bit at Sherlock’s left earlobe and sucked gently, enjoying the way his lover pressed against him. “Tempting, but no. Tesco’s got everything you need - it’s been a few months since you were barred, so stay away from the carrots and you’ll be fine.”

Patently proud of himself, Sherlock smirked. “They weren’t going to be able to sell them in that state: I was doing them a favour.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the manager saw it that way, too.” Greg ran a hand down Sherlock’s back to cup his arse and squeezed. “Make me dinner and I’ll make it worth your while later.”

“Blackmail, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock murmured against his sensitive neck, voice a low rumble. “Isn’t there one of those law things against that?”

Greg tipped his head back, giving him better access. “Why don’t you call the police, then?”

“Pointless when I have the best of Scotland Yard right here.” Sherlock insinuated a knee between Greg’s thighs and applied just enough pressure to almost make him re-think the whole dinner venture.

“Nice try,” Greg said roughly after long moments of almost succumbing, and stepped back to put some _very_ necessary space between them. “Go on, Tesco.”

Sherlock acquiesced with a dramatic sigh and stepped around Greg, moving in the direction of the door. He collected his wallet from the table in passing and snapped, “Fine, but you’ll have to do something with the kitchen if you’re insisting that I cook; I haven’t seen the hob since last Tuesday.”

The door closed behind Sherlock with a bang and Greg resignedly turned to face the kitchen. One glance told him that if Mycroft were in his place a hazmat team would already be en route, and the second had him questioning whether it would actually be safe to eat anything prepared in there. Test tubes, vials, and slides littered the table, which was covered in a sticky-looking residue of something doubtlessly questionable, and he didn’t even want to think about the lump of flesh in the dish beside the microscope. Quickly writing the table off as a lost cause, he shifted his attention to the work surfaces immediately around the cooker. The haphazardly stacked plates of half-eaten meals were reassuring because they meant that Sherlock was at least still eating, but that was scant comfort when he found rows of toenails neatly arranged by size on the chopping board. “Oh, Christ,” he lamented to the empty room, vowing to find something to better occupy the other man’s mind, and fast. 

Not wanting to face his lover’s wrath if he threw the damned things away, Greg rooted around for a suitable container and then set about detoxifying enough space for Sherlock to work in. Though washing pots was never going to top his list of favoured activities, it was that or eating from plates propagating their own ecosystems. By the time the front door closed with a bang twenty five minutes later, only the very worst offenders were still soaking, and there were usable work surfaces within close proximity of the cooker, which was at least passably clean.

“How has the human race managed to survive this long when it’s comprised of people too stupid to operate chip and PIN machines?” Sherlock demanded, sweeping into kitchen and depositing his bag of groceries onto one of the clear bits of worktop. “Oh, and I suggest you have the security guard at Tesco tailed: his badge said ‘Aleksy’, but that was definitely Pawel Novak.”

That name was immediately familiar but it took a couple of seconds for Greg to place it. “The dealer? Why the _hell_ would he be working at Tesco?” 

“Use your brain, Greg,” Sherlock snapped, unpacking the carrier bag. “After Bradstreet’s raid he needed to lie low. Security work is the perfect ruse because he’s accessible to his customers yet overlooked by everyone else.”

Not that he ever actually doubted Sherlock on matters involving criminals or their activities, but hearing that a drug dealer, even a small scale one, was apparently operating out of a Tesco Express was a bit random. “You’re sure it was him?”

“No, I’m feeding your erroneous information because I’m bored,” Sherlock replied drily, setting a pan on the cooker. “Of course it was him.”

Immature, maybe, but flipping Sherlock the bird was always immensely satisfying, even if the younger man couldn’t see it. “You know, you’re almost funny.” 

Greg pulled his phone out and put a call in to the drug squad, relaying Sherlock’s information as the other man began proficiently chopping and dicing his way through the contents of the carrier bag. The sergeant on the other end of the line was not one he’d worked with before, but she certainly seemed to know what she was about, which Greg was extremely grateful for when he spotted what looked a lot like a woman’s _breast_ in the microwave and damn near choked on thin air. “You there, sir?” she asked, tone sharp enough to pull Greg’s attention back to the present. “What time did you say Novak was seen?”

“About half an hour ago. Tell Bradstreet that Sherlock Holmes spotted him: he won’t like it but knows Sherlock’s a solid witness.” Greg ended the call and thrust his phone back into his pocket, spinning to face his lover. “Why the fucking _hell_ have you got a tit in the microwave?”

Busily preparing ingredients as he was, Sherlock spared Greg an irritated glance over his shoulder. “Where else should I be storing it after exposure to microwave radiation? You know that if Mrs Hudson finds a breast in my kitchen she’ll tell my brother, and he’ll send his cleaners in again.” He lifted the chopping board and scraped the diced onions and garlic into a pan. “Speaking of which, what have you done with my toenails? They were on this board before I left but now it’s _clean_.”

Greg shook his head and wandered out of the kitchen and into the lounge, looking for anything - anything at all - to distract him from the horrors of the kitchen. “Tupperware box on the table, but if you get them anywhere near dinner I’ll never have sex with you again.” 

“That’s an empty threat and you know it. You wouldn’t last a week, not now you’ve become accustomed to having it on tap.”

“Bollocks,” Greg replied, scowling at the array of books scattered across the floor. “I was managing perfectly well, thanks.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, popping the ‘p’, over the sound of sizzling onions. “Your mood and tolerance for the idiots you’re lumbered with at work were falling by the day. Feel free to try it, by all means, but I guarantee you’ll last no more than fifty two hours.” He glanced over his shoulder, keen eyes sweeping Greg’s body, and even at that distance Greg could see the cogs turning. “Possibly fifty five if you’re determined to make a point.”

“Alright, smart arse, but I still don’t want them anywhere near our dinner.” He moved further into the lounge, stooping to pick up books and magazines as he went. “What have these done to offend you, then?”

“Nothing,” came the immediate reply, and the tone was a little too sharp to indicate anything but annoyance on Sherlock’s part. “They’re poorly written and the publishers should be hung, drawn, and quartered, but the books themselves are inanimate objects incapable of causing offence.”

Looking down at the book in his hand, _The Wedding Planner_ , Greg fought the urge to laugh, a battle which was about to become almost impossible to win; he moved to place the book on top of the newly-created pile and noticed that the next one down was _Keep Calm For Brides_ , and tilting his head to the side to look at the spine of the one below that revealed _Poems and Readings For Weddings_ sitting atop several more of the same genre. How he’d managed to miss the titles initially was anyone’s guess, but now he’d registered them his curiosity won the day. “Sherlock, something you need to tell me?” he teased. 

“Yes: you’ve missed the blindingly obvious with the Hammond case,” Sherlock replied abruptly, knife working loudly on the chopping board. “Speak to Nicky Morgan, the teacher. Her alibi doesn’t hold up under scrutiny and she definitely had motive.”

Greg grudgingly allowed the topic change and went back to his task, stacking the books and magazines into separate piles. Before long, amazing smells started to waft from kitchen, and Greg felt as much as heard his stomach rumble. Skipping lunch in favour of paperwork was fine occasionally, but after two days of nothing but bad coffee, Hobnobs, and bananas, whatever Sherlock was cooking smelt heavenly. “That smells amazing,” he declared, mouth watering, and wandered into the kitchen to hover at his partner’s side. “You’re a brilliant cook.”

“I have a PhD in chemistry: if I can’t make a passable chicken arrabbiata my parents should be demanding a refund.” Sherlock’s tone was _almost_ normal, but he was far enough off the mark that Greg picked up on it immediately.

“Come on, spit it out: something’s wrong.” Greg absently stroked Sherlock’s back through his purple shirt and resolutely ignored the glacial glare directed at him.

“Yes, _you_.” Sherlock snapped, reaffirming Greg’s opinion that he was positively _adorable_ when in a strop. “Why would you think something is wrong with _me_?” His methodical stirring of the sauce continued but, to Greg’s inexpert eye, with a little too much gusto. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Firing that gun you promised me you’d got rid of, sending a client away in tears when you’ve been whinging about having no cases all week, the explosion of _wedding_ books. I’ll let the tit in the microwave and the shooting slide, and Christ knows you’ve made enough people cry, but what the hell’s with the books?” When Sherlock’s only response was a huff, Greg pressed, “Seriously, should I be worried about you eloping?”

The glare Sherlock directed at him was withering. “Don’t be absurd. Marriage is a broken, archaic institution designed to snare those gullible enough to spend thousands of pounds in an ostensible celebration of commitment which is in reality ostentatious boasting about a successful interpersonal relationship. The fact that it is yet to fall out of fashion is indicative of the abject stupidity of mankind and its need to adhere to social norms, even when they’re no longer fit for purpose.” Greg blinked, more than slightly stung: not that he expected to be getting married again, given who he was in a relationship with, but marriage still held a lot of value for him. “The enduring fallacy that signing a worthless certificate before a crowd of well meaning idiots will reduce the risk of infidelity and relationship breakdown is perhaps the most ridiculous of the lot, as you can personally attest, yet humanity persists in falling for it despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.” His rambling diatribe eventually came to a halt and he must have read something in Greg’s expression, for his lips quirked into an awkward half smile. “No offence.”

Greg stared at him for a moment, and, having sailed straight through ‘stung’ and into ‘hurt’, dropped his hand from the other man’s waist and retreated to the lounge; Sherlock had no idea just how bad things had been by the time his marriage ended, but his ignorance did nothing to make the comments less painful. “Do you even know what ‘no offence’ means?” he demanded angrily, after a long moment of staring unseeingly at the piles of wedding literature. 

The sound of the spatula being laid down was followed by Sherlock’s footsteps as the other man approached. “Yes: it means that the speaker is about to be - or just has been - an unspeakable arsehole, and is offering a meaningless platitude in recompense for being gratuitously offensive.” 

“Yeah, you’re not wrong.” 

A warm hand landed on Greg’s hip and he tensed. Sherlock’s comments had _hurt_. “Greg, I...I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

With a sigh, Greg laid a hand atop Sherlock’s and squeezed; getting angry with him for being rude was like getting angry with the sun for being a bit warm, and he let it go. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I didn’t know you’re a dickhead, is it?”

Sherlock shifted closer and moved his hand from Greg’s hip to his abdomen, using his grip to pull their bodies flush. “I’m the biggest dickhead you’ll ever meet,” he said, breath ghosting Greg’s ear.

With a sigh, Greg dropped his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder, exposing his neck. “No need to sound so proud of it.”

Taking advantage of the exposed neck, Sherlock sucked a biting kiss into the sensitive skin just below Greg’s left ear. “Why not? I’m _very_ proud of it.” The heat of his breath against the damp skin had Greg pressing back against him as gooseflesh erupted down his left side, and he was soon breathing far more heavily than his lack of activity justified. 

After a few moments of enjoying the intimacy, Greg regretfully pulled away from the embrace. He prized time with Sherlock on him like a limpet, but he really was bloody hungry and the aromas coming from the kitchen were doing nothing to help. He turned to face the younger man, eyes taking in his slightly flushed cheeks and dilated pupils with relish. Knowing that _he_ had been the one to do that to Sherlock was always thrilling and he was looking forward to them having eaten so he could make good on it. “Weren’t you in the middle of something before you started molesting me?”

“Hardly ‘molesting’: that implies that my attention was unwelcome, and we’re both smarter than that. I know you, Greg, and right now you’d be bending me over the sofa if you weren’t so hungry.” He initiated a brief but intense kiss, one that had Greg’s toes curling, before pulling back enough to murmur, “Next time you’re planning to visit, eat more than biscuits beforehand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg grumbled, watching Sherlock’s back as he returned to his cooking. “It’s not my fault they scheduled four bloody long, pointless meetings over two days, is it? I just turn up for the damned things, I don’t plan them.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s clattering in the kitchen, Greg ambled around the living room and went back to picking up the last of scattered books. When those were all stacked neatly, he spent a few minutes trying to straighten the rest of the mess up a bit, but quickly decided that it was a lost cause; Sherlock would only put the taxidermied owl back _exactly_ where it had been, anyway, and the random scattering of papers and files and journals had always worked well for the other man. Before long, however, his attention was drawn back to the piles of wedding literature. It made absolutely no sense for Sherlock to have any of it. To Greg’s certain knowledge, the only interest he had ever expressed in marriage was with its impact on human behaviour, potential as a pressure point, and implications for motive. He also knew for a fact that the books hadn’t been there the last time he’d visited, and they were definitely _not_ Sherlock’s usual choice for leisure reading, which left the only possible answer that he was researching. Having got that far, Greg cursed himself for not having arrived at the correct conclusion sooner: Sherlock was flapping about John’s wedding.

Hiding a smile, Greg pulled out his phone and texted John, asking after his wedding plans. For Sherlock to be in such a foul mood, there was clearly _something_ about the progress of the plans that was really bothering him. “So, any news on the wedding?” he asked casually once the text had disappeared into the ether.

Sherlock spun on the spot to glare at Greg as he entered the kitchen. “What ‘news’ can you possibly be expecting? John Watson will be marrying Mary Morstan in a gratuitous display of sentiment, this much you already know. I’ve seen the list of intended invitees so have absolute confidence in saying that you’ll be suffering the agony of witnessing it with me.” He waved his spatula expressively and a glob of sauce flew off the end, landing with a wet splat on the table. “And it _will_ be agonising, I assure you. The colour Mary is considering for her bridesmaids is migraine inducing, and I don’t _have_ a history of migraines.”

“Oh?” Greg asked distractedly, glancing down at his vibrating phone, and had to fight a smile at John’s reply.

 **John Watson** Bloody nightmare. If I wasn’t so mad for her I’d have changed my mind by now. Anyone who enjoys this is sick. 

“The available literature, regardless of how poorly researched and written, is unanimous in its assertion that the ceremony and subsequent celebrations should be reflective of the personalities of the bride and groom, yet she is _seriously_ contemplating _mint green_ for her bridesmaids,” Sherlock spat, expression one of pure consternation. “Quite apart from it being a _disastrous_ choice for her colouring, what about John or Mary is in any way _mint green_?”

“Really? What’s she thinking?” Greg asked, tapping out ‘Ask him to help. Please. Before I have to arrest myself for offing my consultant,’ as Sherlock ranted and paced and flailed. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something important, Garrett?” Sherlock snapped, having spotted that he didn’t have Greg’s full attention.

“Nah, just seeing if there’s an app for it. Something to recommend to them. There’s an app for everything these days,” Greg replied with a bright smile, and, judging by Sherlock’s expression, he had actually managed to _lie_ to the bugger.

Sherlock turned back to the stove and added a pinch of something green and leafy to their dinner. “I’ve downloaded apps onto their phones, put magazines next to their bed, and sent books through the post. What’s the point in doing something if you’re not going to do it right?”

Greg’s phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down at it and grinned, tuning Sherlock’s rambling out. 

**John Watson:** You sure about this? He hates all the mushy stuff.

Replying with an emphatic ‘God, yes. NOW,’ Greg thrust his phone back into his pocket and hoped for the best. “Have you offered to help? Or just been ranting about it in your head?” The glare Sherlock threw over his shoulder made Greg very glad that he was by now immune to every strain of Holmesian annoyance. “You might be able to read someone’s whole day off their left sleeve, but most of us need a few verbal cues, yeah?”

“Why on earth would I offer to help?” Sherlock used tongs to carefully set two chicken thighs into the sauce and then put the lid on the pan with more force than Greg thought the situation really warranted. “I’ve given them everything they need; I won’t be held responsible because two reasonably intelligent people are refusing to do things properly. They know perfectly well where to find me‒” he ranted, but came to a sudden stop when his phone started ringing. “It’s John. Stir that - gently - in five minutes if I’m not back,” he said waving irritably at the pan be as he swept purposefully past Greg and out of the kitchen. “Why are you calling? You know I prefer to text.”

With nothing else to do, Greg started tidying up the detritus of meal preparation Sherlock-style. From the living room he could hear every word Sherlock was saying, and it sounded very much like John had taken his advice and asked for help planning the wedding. Smiling to himself, Greg made quick work of the pots, listening with half an ear to the rambling about seating plans and music choices and why mint green would be the disaster of the century. 

Pots washed, dinner stirred, and pan prepared for cooking pasta, Greg wandered back out to the living room. Sherlock was at his desk, attention flicking between one of his numerous netbooks and a bridal magazine. “No, Mary, the oncidium orchid is a _summer_ flower, not spring. Yes, I know, but if you’re insisting on having a traditional wedding, you at least need to respect the traditions. Google ‘calla lily’. Yes, it’s a spring flower and will go well with the dress you’ve settled on.” Greg dropped heavily onto the sofa and picked up the TV remote as Sherlock scoffed, “Of course I know which one you’ve chosen: your browser history makes for moderately interesting reading, and your personal tastes are obvious to anyone with basic observational skills.”

Tuning Sherlock out, Greg hopped through the rubbish that habitually plagued the nation’s airwaves and settled on football highlights. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Arsenal would be taking the title - which he would _eventually_ get over - but watching Man U get trounced was always therapeutic. The goalie had just conceded a ludicrously easy goal when Sherlock’s voice rose, drawing Greg’s attention again. “Yes, obviously. Tell the venue to expect me tomorrow morning at ten and we’ll take it from there.” He ended the call and closed the lid of his netbook with a decisive snap. “John and Mary send their regards.”

Greg looked at him, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, and smiled. “All sorted, then?” 

“Yes: your interference paid off this time,” Sherlock declared haughtily, but the smile in his eyes belied his tone. “I trust you didn’t manage to ruin dinner?”

“Not unless you gave me bad instructions. It’s been about twenty minutes since you ditched it in favour of playing the consulting wedding planner.” Greg looked up, and jumped at finding Sherlock looming over him and physically jumped. “You are actually part cat, aren’t you?”

“Only if Mummy was doing something _very_ peculiar with the local stray tom,” Sherlock replied. He collapsed onto the sofa with a huff and draped himself against Greg’s side, idly tracing patterns on the fabric of his trousers. “I’m going to the reception venue tomorrow to speak to their events coordinator. A hotel would, of course, make more sense for hosting the whole affair, but they’re insisting on a church wedding despite neither of them paying more than lip service to religion.”

“Weddings do funny things to people.” Greg watched as Sherlock’s fingertips circled higher and higher. “Have you convinced Mary about the sea green?”

“Mint green, yes. Once I pointed out just how badly it would clash with her colouring she saw the light,” Sherlock replied, using an index finger under Greg’s chin to tilt his face up. “I’m sure the guests will be _very_ grateful that you managed to save them from that particular horror.” 

The kiss Sherlock initiated started sweetly but quickly spiralled, becoming intense and needy, and Greg gave himself over to it completely. Seemingly between one breath and the next he found himself with a lapful of very attentive Sherlock, and his hands shifted automatically to cup his lover's arse, drawing him closer. “If this is your way of thanking me for interfering, I’ll have to do it again,” he murmured, lips moving from Sherlock’s mouth to pay attention to his long neck. 

Sherlock tipped his head to the side with a breathy sound and twined the fingers of one hand into Greg’s hair to hold him there. “Not something I’d usually thank you for, but there are always exceptional cases,” he said, rocking his hips. “We have ten minutes before I need to put the pasta on: I’m sure you can think of _something_ to do to make up for sticking your nose in.”


End file.
